


The Author Is Not Avaliable For Comment

by BewareTheIdesOfMarch



Series: Fiction Is Stranger Than The Truth [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, I cannot believe there is already a tag for that oh my god, Inanimate Objects, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdesOfMarch/pseuds/BewareTheIdesOfMarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's cane falls in love with Mycroft's umbrella and I regret my life choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Author Is Not Avaliable For Comment

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is folks, the first and only time I will write a story with inanimate objects as the principal characters. Watch closely.

**Anonymous** asked : _Where's the cane x umbrella crackfic you promised? Please?_

 Fine.  But only because there was a ‘please’.

* * *

Many of you may remember that at one time a certain J. H. Watson owned a silver cane that would assist him as he walked.  (I say own _ed_ because while Mr. Watson was not one for throwing out that which might become useful again in the future, his flatemate, one S. Holmes, was not so careful with his possessions and, having found the cane in a closet one morning, proceeded to sacrifice it to the greater cause of SCIENCE.)  The gentle reader might also recall the habits of an M. Holmes and his particular fondness for umbrellas.  Unbeknownst to these two men (M. Holmes and J. Watson, not S. Holmes.  The younger Holmes will have little to do with this story.), their habits of carrying utensils like the umbrella and the cane caused an upheaval in the world of the inanimate the like of which has never been seen.  Allow me to explain.

J. H. Watson came into possession of his cane on the third day of his second week in the hospital following his injury in Afghanistan.  The doctors had checked him over time and time again with the same result.   _Nothing is wrong with your leg_ , they told him.   _It’s all in your head_ , they told him.   _One day you won’t need that cane_ , they told him.  It’s not exactly the kind of environment you want to enter into if your main function is professional walking stick.  You wouldn’t be in a very good state of mind if you were worried about becoming totally irrelevant at a moment’s notice.  But the cane did its job-

It occurs to me that if I am to continue this story it would be helpful to the reader for me to introduce pronouns to the main characters, who in a normal setting would not be assigned anything greater than ‘it’.  Let us call the cane belonging to Watson ‘her’ or ‘she’ and the umbrella belonging to Holmes ‘him’ or ‘he’.  Please keep in mind that neither objects have a true gender, as they do not posses genitals or a way to convey to us their personal preferences.

-But the cane did her job, which was really all you could ask of her.  She didn’t expect thanks, or gratitude, or even minimum wage for keeping this man on his feet.  She couldn’t expect such things, she was a glorified stick for goodness sake.  Even when Holmes the younger shoved his way into their lives and threatened her with unemployment she did not so much as flinch.  Because she was a cane.  They cannot move on their own.  She was an inanimate object, you see.  But the point that I’m trying to get at here is that our cane here was a truly stout lass and was faithful to the bitter end.  Got it?  Excellent.  Moving on…

There came a time, when J. H. Watson was attempting to get a cab ride back to his own dreary flat, when a phone rang.  It was not his phone.  Obviously, he ignored it.  But then another phone rang.  This phone was not his phone either.  He didn’t answer that one.  And then the phone in a phone booth rang.  He did not own the phone booth, but he answered it anyway.  Sometimes you’ve just gotta figure out what the hell is going on. As the cane had no ears, she did not hear the voice at the other end threaten Watson, nor did she witness the black car slide up beside the phone booth and a man open the door invitingly.  For the sake of the story, I’m hope the reader can remember what happened during the first episode of Sherlock clearly enough for me not to have to describe the car ride.  I’m sure it was terribly boring.  Then again, life as a cane is also probably terribly boring so who are we to judge?

Eventually the car carrying one J. H. Watson and a woman who was not called Anthea arrived at the main plot point.  Did I say plot point?  I meant ‘the warehouse where the suited man stood, ready to threaten, bribe, or blackmail Dr. Watson into doing whatever he wanted.’  Watson faced Holmes (although he did not know it was Holmes) for the first time, and his cane supported him every step of the way.  M. Holmes leaned on an elegant, black umbrella that he’d picked out especially for the occasion.  The two men attempted to negotiate Watson’s right to interact with the younger Holmes, but for the cane and the umbrella none of that mattered.  They didn’t have free will.  They were not sentient.  Literally nothing mattered to them, not because life had no meaning but because they had no life.

You have no idea how frustrating this is for me to write.

Even though they could not see, hear, think, or feel, both objects somehow sensed the other’s presence.  Through the haze of not actually having feelings they began to feel something neither had ever experienced.  Unadulterated lust.  This sudden wave of attraction left no room for things like existential crises or worries about job security, it consumed the two utensils like nothing ever had before.  The can began to grow warm under Watson’s hand.  The umbrella trembled slightly.  Neither human noticed.  The cane and the umbrella were left to revel in the sudden knowledge of the other’s presence.

All too soon, J. H. Watson had proved to M. Holmes that he had bigger balls than most and exited the warehouse, cane in hand.  The cane would have wept, had she eyes and tear ducts, for the loss of her beloved umbrella.  He had been the most attractive thing she’d ever metaphorically laid eyes on, and _damn_ she would have tapped that ass in an instant.  If he had had an ass.  Or she had been able to move of her own free will.  Eh, whatever.  The star-crossed lovers were parted against their will, never to see each other again.  And thus, the umbrella told his tale of woe to the other umbrellas in the umbrella stand.  And the cane sang her lament to the sweaters in the closet.  

Here ends the story of a doomed love, one that could never be.  And not only because the lovers were not what you would classify as ‘sentient’.  Well, partly because of that.  But mostly because fate is an asshole.


End file.
